


Red

by The_Sad_Hatter



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Moral Compass Shifting, Multi, Other, Possibly the 'birth' of a villain, Soft Loki, but soft angst, graphic injury description, kinda fluffy in a way, reader is disillusioned with heroism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25171435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sad_Hatter/pseuds/The_Sad_Hatter
Summary: When the cost of being a hero is too high, what will become of you? And when you’re on the precipice of change, who’s the person who helps you?
Relationships: Loki/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 81





	Red

Scores of hero’s had battled him before you had your turn, and it was only luck that placed you in his path when he was already exhausted. Or maybe it wasn’t luck at all. 

Maybe it was fate. 

Whatever it was, it was the crucible in which your downfall was contained. You might have been an Avenger, a fighter, a hero, but you were not equipped to fight a god and survive, let alone win. But he was already weakened by the Widows bite, his ribs bruised by the Captains Shield, his energy depleted by the witches power, his flesh scorched by Iron Man’s repulsors, his spirit sapped by his brothers ego. He had been battled into near submission and when you drove your dagger into his chest, he could not stop it. The blade pierced his skin, sliding between his ribs with ease, and crimson blood poured from the wound you had inflicted, spilling over your hand. 

His blood was cold, dripping down your wrist like icy water and coating your hand like a scarlet glove. 

You both moved in tandem, looking down at the dagger, each as equally shocked as the other. Your breath crystallised in the cold air as you gasped, heart hammering in your chest. It was in the moment you realised you may have slain Loki, that you realised you really didn’t want to. Fear gripped your heart, squeezing until it hurt so much that you couldn’t breathe. 

Had you just killed someone, killed the god of Mischief? 

“You missed.” He whispered, his voice filled with sympathy. 

You’d just stabbed him, and he was showing you sympathy? You dragged your eyes away from the terrible wound you’d inflicted, from your fingers wrapped around the handle of the blade sticking out of his chest. His words settled over the fog around your mind and seeped through it, until they made some kind of sense. 

“I missed?” You repeated hopefully, pleading with your eyes. 

His face softened exponentially as he gave you a small and fleeting smile. 

“Yes. You did not pierce my heart with your dagger.” He clarified, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and very carefully pulling your hand away until you released your grip on the fateful blade. 

You let him manoeuvre your shaking hand away, trying and failing to swallow down the whimper in your throat as blood continued to pulse out the edges of his wound. 

“Wait! No! Stop!” You yelped as he grasped the handle, stalling him before he could pull it out. 

“I must remove it so my body can begin to heal it.” He sighed, his already pale skin growing paler by the second. 

Right, Asgardian, or something. Not human. He probably wouldn’t bleed to death if he removed it, hopefully. You ignored the incessant buzzing in your ears, vaguely familiar voices demanding information, begging for assurances of your safety. All your attention was reserved for Loki, and for what you had done to him. He yanked the blade out in one swift movement, before you had a chance to prepare for it. Crimson liquid welled up in the gash left behind, streaming out of it in an alarming stream, and your hands moved of their own accord, twisting to press against the wound in a fruitless attempt to keep any more of his blood from spilling out. His blood was, quite literally, on your hands. 

What the hell had you done? 

You had trained for this, every day for months. You had been trained to be a hero by the best of them, but you hadn’t prepared yourself for what it meant to be a killer. Adrenaline and training had pushed you forward in your task, and only when the blade had sunk deep and it was too late, did you realise what your task really was. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” You whimpered, choking on the fucking useless apology. “Please don’t die. I don’t want you to die.” 

“You don’t want me to die, or you don’t want to be my killer?” He chuckled weakly, devoid of humour and dripping with weariness. 

But even as he had asked the harsh but fair question, his hand cupped your cheek, gently lifting your face until you met his eyes. There was absolutely no anger in his gaze, none. No rage, no hate, no disdain. Just exhaustion, pain, and sympathy. 

“I don’t want you to die.” You admitted. 

You didn’t want to kill him, you didn’t want to kill anyone, you knew that now. But more than that, you didn’t like that he was hurt, and you couldn’t bear to see him injured any further. He was supposed to be the villain here, but he was the one comforting his attempted assassin, and the hero’s were the one ‘s who had put the knife in your hand and told you where to strike. 

Good and bad weren’t simple concepts right now, they weren’t black and white. They were just red, blood red. 

“In that, we have common ground. I would prefer to survive this as well.” He sassed, and against all odd you found a laugh bubbling out of your chest. 

“There, that’s much better.” He crowed softly, tracing the edge of your smile with his thumb. 

“Why? I hurt you. I…” You whispered against his fingertips. 

“You’re not like the others, you’re not like anyone. Of all those who have hurt me, and there have been many, you are the first to show any kind of remorse. Strong enough to stab a god, and kind enough to cry for him.” He explained. “You are not like them.” 

Your heart had been hanging on by a flimsy thread, but his admittance obliterated it. You could feel the fissure’s running through it, feel it tremble in your chest, and just as it was about to crumble into dust, he wrapped his arm around your waist and strode forwards, leading you with him in some kind of tragic waltz across the battlefield. Darkness fell over the two of you as he backed you into the shadows of a nearby building, pressing you further into the darkness as the sky shook and the familiar figure of Thor fell from the clouds and landed on the concrete. 

Loki’s arms fell away from you and he stepped to the side, letting you see what he’d left behind. You, held aloft in his grip, eyes filled with fear. An illusion, meant for Thor. 

“LOKI!” Thor bellowed. “Unhand her, and face me brother!” 

“Step out of the shadows, show him you are quite safe.” Loki, the real Loki whispered. 

An offer, not a challenge. One you didn’t understand the point of. 

“Or?” You asked. 

“Let The Avengers watch you burn into ash at my hand, and escape them and the life you so clearly do not want.” 

He was offering to kill you. To have your team watch you die. A cruel offer, a dark one, but… 

You didn’t want this life, he was right. And you never really had, you had only gone along with everybody else’s plans for you. You had let Earth’s Mightiest Hero’s mould you, twist you into one of them, suit you up as an Avenger, never once really telling you what that might mean. What it might cost you. 

Cruel, Dark, and Justified. 

“Kill me.” You hissed decisively. 

They would suffer, but they would survive. You weren’t close to them, not really. There would be some guilt, a little anger, and then they would move on. They would be more affected by having lost something to Loki, than actually having lost you. So you didn’t feel a shred of guilt as illusory flames roared to life over your doppelgänger.

Thor’s roar was all rage, and not pain. His eyes were fixed upon the fake Loki, and not the smouldering remains of what he believed to be you. Loki’s illusion moved in tandem with him, both conjuring a glowing blue cube from nowhere. In the distance you saw the rest of The Avengers converge upon the scene, and you turned your back on them, concerning yourself with the only thing that mattered anymore. 

“Take me away.” You begged, ripping the jacket of your super suit off and pressing it to Loki’s wound. 

The hero was dead, long live whatever the hell you were going to become now. 

“Come. Freedom awaits us.” Loki whispered in your ear, wrapping his arm around you once again as the world bled into blue.


End file.
